Anytime the Birds Fall

By Danielle Stewart

Marta is on the verge of a new life. Hard earned success waits just around the next corner. But only if she’s brave enough to keep walking toward it. Winning the Milton Cesar Foundation for the Arts Award will launch her career. With the spotlight turned her way, she’ll have to face a messy past and dream of a brighter future.

Carol is burdened with the desire to fix what’s broken. To make room for more people in the elite foundation she currently runs. But change is hard and the people around her don’t share her vision. Selecting Marta as the award recipient was a bold step. Getting everyone on board seems an insurmountable task.

The two must come to terms with their collective fears. If they plan to change anything, they must face everything. Danger included. With Robert and Terrance by their sides, there is room for hope. For possibility. Maybe even for love.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bryant Street Publishing
• Release date: Apr 25, 2023
• ISBN: 9781094458724

Danielle Stewart

Danielle Stewart is a USA Today Best Selling Author of over 50 books. She has held the number one book rank on Apple Books, Amazon and Barnes and Noble. Danielle currently lives in Charlotte, North Carolina with her husband and son. She works hard to perfect her ability to write in a noisy house and create story lines while daydreaming and folding laundry. She loves hearing from readers so please find her on social media.

Book preview

©2022 Danielle Stewart.

Published by Scribd, Inc.

All Rights Reserved.

1

Marta

An award should evoke a celebratory feeling. In the face of all the seemingly endless barriers, Marta had done it. She’d not only written a book and put it out into the world. Somehow, it had been selected for recognition by the Milton Cesar Foundation for the Arts. A prestigious career launching accolade that would certainly alter her life.

There should have been dancing on the table and corks popping off bottles of champagne. Instead there were meticulous plans to be made. Emotional fields full of landmines that had been placed long ago. An ex-husband with a vendetta. A mother with more baggage than a cross country greyhound bus. A town who considered her a failure. People who would line up to spill the tea on her past in a very public way. And an industry who would certainly find her wholly unworthy of such praise. Today, Marta was a small town self-made woman who’d found a way to prop herself up and outrun the trauma of her childhood. If she accepted the award, the spotlight of the world was shone upon her. Surely all they would see were the endless flaws and failures she’d worked so hard to plaster up and paint over.

Saying yes should have been the easy part. Who wouldn’t say, elevate my career and change the trajectory of my life. It should have rolled off Marta’s tongue. Instead she’d spent every waking second since Carol, the CEO of the foundation, first approached her, wondering if she could really pull this off. Was the book actually good? Would the world let a woman like Marta into their elite club of award winning authors?

There had been so many moments of her life that made her question the possibility. The amount of rebuilding and running she’d done to survive should have disqualified her from hope. From the idea of something finally going her way. And in such a big way. It was like climbing out of a dark abyss to find yourself on a mountain top. Implausible. Impossible.

But Carol persisted and insisted. A powerful woman with a completely different life experience who saw promise in Marta she couldn’t possibly see in herself. It all felt too good to be true. Too scary to actually accept. Yet for the first time in Carol, and her assistant Terrance, Marta found people unwilling to give up on her. Promoters instead of detractors. There was a chance Carol could be the mother Marta never had. Terrance could be the man who kept her safe instead of chronically afraid of the next wicked thing that might befall her.

Terrance had swooped in. Stood tall. Spoke kindly. Kissed her perfectly. Convinced her she was worthy. It was almost enough. It sparked something in her. A glimmer of hope. How great it would be to find out all along she was good enough. Or like everything else, it could crumble in her hands and blow away like the dust of her previous heartbreaks and failures.

Marta – Age 9

The head of the hammer smelled of rust and the wooden handle was split in a few places. Marta gripped it tightly anyway. She was unafraid of splinters. Or maybe just less afraid of them than of her father’s reaction to any hesitation around tools. Being a designated assistant for a variety of his jobs wasn’t Marta’s choice. She was both unwilling and painfully unqualified for almost all of the tasks. Her hands were too small. Her skills undeveloped. It didn’t usually end well.

Yet, they kept up this routine every time there was something new to be done. If she was holding a flashlight, it was never pointed where he needed it. Her hands would grow tired and start to shake. Handing over a wrench, it was always the wrong size. Her father somehow imagined this girl, not having attended a trade school by the age of nine, was equipped to help him fix a furnace or hand him shingles at the top of the ladder.

No was not an option. There was an unspoken contract that when told to help, you helped. She didn’t bother suggesting her tiny frame was not capable of lifting shingles. Or that her inexperience might make it impossible for her to know where the spark plug should go. She’d heard in church that some people believed all things were possible through Christ. Her father believed all things were possible because what other choice did they have?

Calling a repairman cost money they couldn’t spare. Buying the right tools was out of the question. You made things work with what you had, and Charlie Leduc had free labor in the form of his children.

Her brothers had smartened up. They listened intently as their father would grumble about something loose or broken or acting up. Then they’d hightail it out of the house and stay gone all day. She imagined right now as she clutched the hammer that her brothers were in the loft of the Wilsons’ barn reading comics.

You going to give it to me? Charlie barked. Whenever he was working on something, he was unrecognizably cranky. The jovial man who would hoist Marta onto his shoulders and playfully march her around was gone the moment he had to shimmy himself up a ladder or under a car.

At this moment, his large frame was wedged precariously under the family’s 1971 green Gremlin. The exterior was more Bondo than metal now, and most days it required extraordinary measures to function. Every car they’d ever had for as long as Marta remembered was like this. Temperamental and unreliable. When she was little, the family only had one car. Her parents would have to juggle everything around to make sure they could both get to and from work. It was the cause of fights sometimes. Though they were never short on things to argue about. Since the divorce, they now needed two cars. They had the same amount of money to spend which meant two even worse cars than the one they used to share.

The day this green car chugged and lurched into the driveway of her father’s apartment building, Marta held her breath. Not only to block out the exhaust fumes. She also knew this would be the start of something. More afternoons spent trying desperately to keep this car alive. Like a fraught ER doctor, sweat on his brow and electric paddles in his hands, her dad would have to will this car to keep running. And she’d have to be a part of that.

Charlie wasn’t a mechanic. He never had the right tools. The jack lifting the car looked as ill-equipped for its job as Marta did for hers.

Here, she said, placing the hammer in his extended hand that poked out from under the car. The vehicle practically rested on his belly as he maneuvered to bang the starter a few times with the hammer. It hadn’t been working lately. This normally reliable fix had failed them the last few times. Closing her eyes and holding her breath, she was desperate for it to be effective today.

While the banging sound of metal on metal hurt her ears, she didn’t cover them. Even though Charlie couldn’t see her, she felt compelled to be brave. Weakness in his eyes was dangerous. If she showed she couldn’t take the sound he was making, how would she be able to repair her own car someday when the starter began to act up?

Charlie wasn’t heartless. He didn’t push his children because he enjoyed watching them struggle or hurt. He’d grown up in a certain version of the world. Unforgiving, plagued by bad luck, a new seemingly insurmountable challenge around every corner. Charlie knew his children would be subjected to the same. It was his job to make them sturdy enough to survive as if they were houses he was tasked to build, and a hurricane was always on the horizon. Weak walls and a poor foundation wouldn’t do. For a sometimes silly guy with a hearty laugh, he took this job very seriously.

His children had to know which wrench to use and how to ignore the pain in their ears at the sound of a loud bang. Dirty jobs couldn’t scare them off. It was never even a consideration that his children might have cars that started every time without fail or enough money to hire an actual mechanic. Because of who they were, he knew for sure their toilets would need to be tinkered with and their sinks would leak. Something too fantastical to imagine. So instead, he’d prepare them.

Go turn the ignition, he snapped, and she could see him shifting his weight. This position, his back flat on the pavement, was clearly uncomfortable. His face was likely covered now with little speckles of rust. A dirty job, but the car was a necessity.

Are you going to get out of there? Marta asked, peeking under to see him better.

I’m not sliding out of here just to find out this didn’t work and then have to get back under. Just put the clutch down, keep a foot on the brake and turn the key.

An urgent desire to protest rolled up in her chest but stopped at the back of her throat. There was a gatekeeper there. A little troll that decided if what she planned to say would make things worse or better. Fear gripped tightly around her neck and squeezed. She knew which was the clutch and which was the brake. Logically, she understood what he was telling her to do, but all she could imagine was the horrific scene that would unfold if she hit the wrong pedal and ran her father over. Can’t you come out of there first?

Marta, stop second-guessing yourself. You’ve driven this car before. Why do you think I let you do that? Joy rides? No, you need to know these things.

Driving the car at her age had been exciting. The way almost everything her father thought up seemed at the time. Lately, her impression of his ideas was changing. But can’t I know these things and not run you over? There was a little snap to her voice, something between a protest and a plea.

You’re not going to run me over. His voice was muffled by the car lying on top of him. But she knew already what he was about to say. High stakes mean better results.

Charlie said that often. Marta sometimes wanted to believe him. The more there was on the line, the harder you’d work. But sometimes it only meant her hands would sweat more and her stomach would knot up. She never felt prepared under pressure. Just squeezed tighter.

You shouldn’t be under there when I start it up. This had been happening more lately. Marta had surpassed Charlie in good judgment. When she was little, back when she was eight, and Charlie told her to do something, she obeyed. It was easy to trust that he, as the adult, knew what was safe or right. Now, as each month passed, Marta understood that was not true for every adult. Especially for Charlie.

Get in the car and start it up. There was a finality in his voice that she wasn’t equipped to argue with.

A familiar sensation rushed through her and she wished it had a name, or a name she knew. It was prickles all over her scalp. That blinky feeling that came before tears, though she knew better than to cry. A lump, a real one, in her throat. She often wondered where the lump went on the rare occasion when she wasn’t afraid. What was it made of? How did it know to come back and clog her throat?

If I run you over, I’m just going to keep driving until I hit Florida. This wasn’t exactly the antidote for fear. Humor was more like putting a Band-Aid on a broken bone. Performative and ineffective, but at least an attempt to make things better. When Marta had no control, she had jokes.

Just hop out and get my wallet first.

Why? We both know it’s empty. Marta kicked at his leg lightly and then dragged herself, lead feet and shaking hands, to the driver’s side of the car. It was at an odd angle since it was jacked up, and she found it hard to pull the heavy door open.

Today, kid. Stop daydreaming, Charlie said, but his voice was gentler now. Clutch, brake, turn the key.

Daydreamer was a familiar accusation tossed at Marta. They called her imaginative. Creative. This talent that made her able to write stories for school and play endlessly with her thrift shop dolls was actually a curse, not a blessing. The same mind that allowed her to create a pretend world full of fictional characters also became adept at excessively worrying as a way to protect herself. If she’d already thought about her house burning down, then if it happened some part of her would be prepared for it. If she’d fretted how bad her parents’ next public fight might be, maybe she could endure it more when the time came. While that never proved true, the worry never lessened the sting, it didn’t deter her from letting it consume her thoughts.

Marta had two jobs. Two exhausting roles in her family. First, she was to observe it all. Sense the tiny tremors of the far-off danger. Did someone’s expression just change suddenly? Would her mother’s actions that Monday change her father’s mood when they arrived at his house for the weekend? Then her second job kicked in. Take all of that knowledge, all she’d seen, heard, and felt, and do something about it. If her mother was tense over something her father had done, Marta would try to smooth things over. Or she’d take it upon herself to somehow cheer her mother up, a sometimes impossible task. If her brothers seemed ready to needle their father about an unfair rule, she’d head that off before they could push him to the brink. She’d be a distraction. A diversion. A punching bag. Anything the moment called for as long as it resulted in some semblance of happiness for them. Or at a minimum, a crisis averted.

Hyperaware of how people were feeling and personally responsible to do something about it, Marta’s tiny body never fully relaxed. She seemed to be the only one who wanted the big family blow-out arguments to stop, or even better, never start. All day her mind oscillated between the possible impending doom that might be just around the corner and the management of emotions for everyone in her orbit.

Right now, she needed this car to start. She needed her father to emerge safely from underneath it. He couldn’t be late dropping them off to their mother today. It was a trigger. An excuse for her to behave badly and him to treat her explosive anger as an excuse for his own. Her mother would be on the porch, waiting. Seething. Not because she couldn’t wait to have her children back but rather that she couldn’t wait for a reason to hate this man even more. To be right in the presence of his wrongness.

His late arrival would be an invitation for chaos. This car, this broken heap of metal that always let them down, had no idea the consequences of its failures.

Marta closed her eyes and imagined what she’d have to do if the car crushed her father. The whole thing. Who she’d have to call. What it might sound like. Would everyone know she killed her father? Would she go to jail? No one Marta knew could rapid-fire worst-case scenarios in their mind as well as she could.

By the time the key was in the ignition, she was already onto the next problem. She imagined the shouting that would come from the porch of her mother’s apartment if the car didn’t crush her dad, but they were still late. Would her mother make them go back to court again? Would the police come this time and actually arrest one of them? The lump grew a few more sizes as she started the car.

When the engine roared to life, a brief and fleeting rush of relief washed over her. A moment or two later, her father was out from under the car, haggard and dirty as he pulled open the car door. I told you, he said smugly. You didn’t run me over.

We need to get going, Marta sighed, looking at his old plastic watch. Why aren’t the boys back here yet?

"I’m sure they were just waiting to see